


She Sets the City on Fire

by officemonkey



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Deaf Clint Barton, F/F, F/M, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Natasha is a Sneaky Monkey, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-06-21 18:35:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15563949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/officemonkey/pseuds/officemonkey
Summary: Clint Barton wakes up in his crappy new apartment to a strange redhead. Both insist they belong there. Antics may ensue.Or, the one where Natasha's a serial arsonist but she's not a killer and Clint takes a really long time to figure shit out.Also, Steve Rogers is a den mother for self-destructive weirdos.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A pleasant side distraction from my long-term works. I haven't forgotten about those, I'm just working past the stuck part. Have faith, my lovelies, and enjoy this little side tale.

Clint drops the last bag of clothes vaguely somewhere near his closet then drops his body onto the bare mattress behind him. One of his hearing aids slips and he doesn’t fix it, instead just slipping off both BTE’s and dropping them on the floor nearby. He can’t hear anything past his own breathing now but he’s too tired to care and Steve’ll figure it out soon enough. Instead, he turns toward the light spilling out of the kitchen doorway and yells.

“I’m too old for this shit! I think we need pizza!” The response isn’t immediate which means Steve hasn’t figured it out yet. Clint yells again.

“You’re paying, right?”

This gets a reaction. A blond head pokes out into the hallway, spies Clint having given up on unpacking, and shakes vigorously. Before Clint can make a face, he’s ducked back into the kitchen.

“Fine - how about half?”

Steve reappears, two bottles of cold beer in hand, and tosses him one as he hits the bedroom doorway. Twists the lid off his own, plops down on the floor and holds his hand out for the inevitable. Clint’s still trying to get a good grip on the bottle without actually having to sit up.

“I can open my own drinks, mom.” Clint resumes his one-sided conversation, grinning up at his friend. Steve takes it anyway. Steve’s not the greatest fan of this game, but at least he won’t bitch until Clint puts his hearing aids back in like everyone else.

 _Sure. Whatever._ Steve signs.

“Meathead,” Clint takes a long pull off the bottle and puts on a defiant smirk.

_Infant._

Some days, he regrets getting Steve interested in signing. Sassy bitch comes across loud and clear in many languages. Still, he’s damn grateful. Steve “Help moving or help moving the bodies?” Rogers is one of his last remaining friends in a dying town full of dying relationships. Ever since they landed in the same phys ed class in high school, Steve’s been his voice of reason. If Clint gets that look in his eye and the words “hold my beer” come into play, Steve’s the one reminding him to at least put on a helmet. Steve’s calm restraint, however, has never seemed to apply to his own actions, and his deep disgust for people who treat others poorly gets them both into more scrapes than Clint can reasonably recall. He’s gotten really good at walking into a fight halfway through and yanking his friend’s buns out of the oven before the cops get involved.

Two tours in Afghanistan straight out of high school did absolutely nothing to dampen his adventurous spirit or Steve’s overdeveloped sense of justice, it just gave them time to hone their skills and grew Clint’s scrawny partner in crime into a formidable opponent with a body to back up his loud mouth. He’s easily got six inches and forty pounds on Clint now, but internally he’s still the little guy that doesn’t suffer bullies kindly. They settled back in the same town once they got out and got jobs at the only decent bar in town. Steve’d met this guy while they were overseas (“only you’d go to Afghanistan to meet a Russian guy”) and Clint gladly stood up alongside his friend when they got hitched. They cover each other’s shifts and each other’s asses regularly, same as always.

Steve shoves at his legs to get his attention and signs, _Where’s your phone?_

 _Hang on._ Clint returns, rolling up on his side to dig the phone out of his back pocket. He groans a bit with the effort and swipes up to turn on the screen. It blinks to life and he yells at it.

“Siri, get us a pizza! From Charlie’s!”

A text response flashes up - [Sure thing! The usual?]

“Yeah but two of them!”

Steve leans over him and squints at the screen. Clint can see his lips move, the beginning of a question forming, before another response appears. He recoils in horror. Clint’s able to lipread what he says next pretty easily.

[Two large Hawaiians from Charlie’s, on its way!] the phone vibrates twice, letting him know the order was sent, and the screen goes blank.

“Siri NO! NO PINEAPPLES!!” Steve dives across him, but Clint is too fast and lobs the phone onto a folded-up blanket before catching two hundred pounds of pineapple hate straight across his chest. He laughs with whatever breath Steve hasn’t knocked out of him.

“Easy there, Siri thinks a Hawaiian is a double pepperoni with bacon!”

Steve stops scrabbling and rolls off the mattress. He rights himself and signs one thing.

_Butthole._

“Aww, did you have to look that one up just for me? I’m touched.”

To atone for his sins, Clint slips his aids back on and heads down to the gas station on the corner for another sixer of the decent brew. He passes the pizza guy on the way up the stairs and walks into Steve polishing off the first slice.

“Couldn’t even wait for me, huh?” Clint grabs a slice as well and flops next to Steve on his new-to-him couch. It’s brown and hideous, with a print made up of little houseboats and autumn leaves. It’s deceptively comfortable and he sinks into it a bit with a small sigh before reaching forward to the open box on his best-of-Goodwill coffee table.

“So, what is this place gonna cost me?” he says around a huge bite. Steve had helped him find a place to live after Kate kicked him out - for good this time. She’d picked up and moved to Cleveland with some chick named Jess she met at work. He didn’t mind couch surfing at Steve’s but it’s a relief to have his own space again.

“Less than you think,” Steve responds and grabs his second slice. “I’ve got an in with the landlord - he owes me a favor.”

He cocks an eyebrow at his friend but waves a hand for him to continue.

“This is the only apartment on this floor that’s ready to rent. The others are all still pretty rough from the last tenants and the landlord says there’s been squatters here, so he wants a presence - someone living here to discourage people from hanging out. He says you can have it for four hundred a month. I pay eight so that’s a steal.”

“Ok, not so bad. So, where’s the catch?” Clint grabs a bottle out of the six pack on the floor and wraps the end of his shirt around the cap to twist it open.

“I may have told him you’re willing to clean up the other apartments in your spare time, maybe do some small repairs.” Steve hides behind his pizza, watching Clint’s face. He just shrugs and takes a drink.

“I’ve done worse for a place to live,” he takes another bite and continues, mouth still full. “But you are so helping me. Plan on dragging your ass one floor up every Sunday.”

“Fine by me. You can get a ton of practice then come down and fix the hole you put in my wall,” he finishes off the last of his pizza and licks a bit of tomato off his thumb. “I clearly said no target practice in the house.”

“Yeah but the neighbors look at me weird when I practice outside.” It was Clint’s skill with archery that started the first conversation between the boys, but his bow tends to figure into more of his bad ideas than Steve’s comfortable with.

“Maybe stop with the flaming arrows?” he deadpans Clint over the top of his drink. “Just sayin’ …”

Clint laughs and shoves him in the shoulder on his way to grabbing another piece of pie. “No fun, I tell ya.”

They finish eating in tired but comfortable silence and Clint stows the remaining couple of slices in the tiny fridge. He notices in his pass through the kitchen that Steve’s put away all the dishes, but only on the top two shelves of each cabinet. There’s a stepstool next to the stove with a little red bow stuck on it. When he returns to the living room, Steve’s wearing his best shit-eating grin.

 _I hate you,_ he signs and rolls his eyes.

Steve flashes _I love you_ and falls back, giggling. They manage to unpack a few more boxes, find the one with Clint’s soap and toothpaste (“dude, why did you even pack this?”), and get the TV hooked up and working. By then it’s nearing in on eleven and they’re both fading fast.

 _I’m kicking you out now_. Clint takes out his hearing aids again and stretches. Steve yawns and gives a half-smile. He grabs up his jacket and keys from the corner.

 _Fine_. He stops just short of the door and taps Clint’s shoulder. _One more thing_.

Steve opens the door and reaches out into the hallway to press the doorbell. All the lights from the living room to the bedroom flash twice. Clint grins and bumps his shoulder.

_Thanks. How did you manage that?_

Steve shrugs. _I’ve got an in with the landlord. Also_ \- he slides over to the living room window, shutting off every light on the way over. He taps firmly on the glass and every light in the place switches back on. Clint’s eyes widen.

_So people can’t sneak up on you. Landlord’s idea. Security system._

“Jeez, what did you do? Blow the guy?” Clint responds after a minute of stunned silence. Steve rolls his eyes, holding up his other hand. The thin gold band shines in the bright room.

 _Married, dude. Liking dick doesn’t mean I like every dick_. He laughs and gives Clint a friendly shove on his way back to the door.

“Well tell the dick that puts up with you I says hi.” Clint turns and begins flipping every light off again. Steve waves and pulls the door shut behind him. Once he’s worked his way back to the bedroom, he eyeballs the bare mattress with disdain and bundles up a blanket and pillow. New places are always weird and the building’s not exactly in the best part of town.

 

He makes his way back to the living room, picking up his bow case and his phone along the way, and a cup from the kitchen. He can’t remember where the actual case for his BTE’s are so a coffee mug will do for the night.

Clint sets the bow case on the floor, pops the latch but leaves the lid down. He reaches into the case only for a pouch with three very well-balanced knives and tucks them down the side of the couch cushion. Phone goes under the pillow so he can feel the vibrations when the alarm goes off. He’d traded Steve for a day shift in exchange for help getting set up, so he’s trying not to be late. He sets the cup with his hearing aids on the floor within arm’s reach, kicks off his shoes and jeans into a pile at the other end, and pulls the blanket right up to his chin. He’s out in a matter of minutes.

Every light in the house blazing on at once turns out to be an effective way to wake him.  
Great, first night and I’m already getting robbed. He palms one of the knives even before he’s got his eyes open all the way. He kicks off the blanket and jumps up, immediately regretting not tossing on a pair of pajama pants earlier.

The strange redhead standing in the middle of his living room looks equally surprised. She’s saying something. He holds up a finger, gesturing to his ears, and reaches for the cup. She nods slowly, but she’s holding something behind her back. He doesn’t take his eyes off her, keeping the knife pointed her way and ready to fly. He fumbles with the hearing aids but manages to get them on and in place one-handed.

She tilts her head to the side and says, “You’re not Oleg, are you?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holy exposition, Batman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. 
> 
> Adulting sucks and I recommend it to no one. Read this instead.

It’s not every day you wake up to a tiny ginger ninja breaking into your home. 

“Dammit, I’m on the wrong floor, aren’t I?” She snatches back the item she’d just tucked in her back pocket and Clint nearly lets his knife fly. It’s just a cell phone. She thumbs over the screen for a second then sticks her head back out the now-open living room window. Her sweater hikes up a little, revealing streaks of dirt and scratches across her hip and the briefest flash of soft belly as she twists in the narrow opening. She’s mumbling to herself and counting windows. 

She looks familiar but he can’t figure out where from - he sure as shit didn’t go to school with her. Who knows - maybe she’s the rugrat little sister of one of the guys from track.  _ Didn’t Ben have like twelve little brothers and sisters?  _

He swears he smells kerosene for a second. 

A chilly breeze blows past as she ducks back in the window and faces him. She looks practically cozy in her grey hoodie and jeans and he’s painfully aware of his poor choice in boxers - Cupids and arrows tipped with tiny hearts. Kate once thought they were hilarious. She smiles at him, apologetic and a little helpless. “Wrong window?” 

“Where do you think you are?” He relaxes a little and drops his arm. She’s glancing at her phone again and he can see a look of fear briefly cross her face.

“410?” she asks, raking fingers through her hair. There’s a nasty cut across her palm. He sets the knife on his table. She’s just a kid - he doesn’t really see her as the robbing the nearly-naked guy among his thrift store furniture type. 

“No, 402,” he shakes his head a little, nods to the boxes nearby. “Just moved in today.” 

“Ugh, God - no. I’m gonna be late,” the girl - he seriously begins to wonder if she’s even old enough to drink - pockets her phone again and starts back out the window. The cut on her hand opens up as she grabs the windowsill. It leaves a tiny smudge of blood on the wall. “Sorry, I’m - I just --” 

“Hey, hang on a minute,” Clint grabs the roll of paper towels left from dinner and takes a tentative step toward her. “At least get that cleaned up before you go.” 

She doesn’t bolt immediately at the suggestion. Glances at her injury and tries to wipe off newly formed beads of blood against her pants. It doesn’t get any better. Clint just sighs and leads her by the arm into the kitchen. He rips off a wad of paper towels and wets it in the sink, snatches up a box of bandaids Steve must have left for him on the counter. He waves a hand at the tiny kitchen table and two vinyl-covered chairs straight out of 1974. “Sit.” 

The girl perches on a chair, still looking like she’s ready to take off at the first hint of trouble. He pulls the other chair around so he’s directly in front of her, tosses the dry paper towels and bandages on the table. The smell of kerosene is stronger as he gets closer to her. He picks up her hand to clean it off and notices the receding pink rash and nails chewed to nothing.  _ The fuck did you get into, bitty?  _

Clint gently thumbs her hand open and wipes the wet towel across her palm, revealing a shallow cut across the base of her thumb underneath a layer of dust and ash. She hisses a little when he repeats the same thing with a dry one. Her fingers twist a little in his grip but he holds steady. He flicks a quick grin up at her while he shakes a bandage out of the box. “See? Not so bad.” 

The girl’s face relaxes just a tiny bit and she returns the smile. He drops her hand for a second to wrestle with the thin paper wrapper. A few seconds later, he’s smoothing the plastic strip over her cut, resisting the urge to press a quick kiss on top of it like he did for a number of younger siblings. Hesitates for a second, rubs a calloused thumb over her tiny fingers once more. Tries not to think about the blackened ash lining her cuticle, how it got there,  _ why she’s crawling in through people’s windows in the middle of the night.  _

_ Not your problem, Barton. Just be a good neighbor and shut the hell up.  _

“There. Good as new,” he shakes off the thought and lets go of her hand, pushing back from the table. She wiggles her fingers a little and stands up as well. “Out the way you came, then?” 

“I, uh - thanks, but I gotta run,” she heads back toward the window, shoving it up a few more inches. She swings a leg over the window sill and glances back. “Thank you.” 

He smiles wearily back, drops his handful of detritus in the garbage can. “No problem. Hey, be careful out there.” 

“Not likely.” The girl’s smile widens and she ducks her head out, followed by the rest of her compact form. She’s polite enough to slide the window shut gently. Clint scrubs a hand over his face, wishes he’d stocked his fridge better.  _ Christ, I shoulda saved back a beer. _

He plucks out his hearing aids again and shambles back to the couch, collapses without even bothering to pull the blanket back up over him. The hearing aids get dropped unceremoniously on the floor next to his forgotten pants and he’s asleep again before he can even think about turning off the lights. 

 

When he resurfaces, his phone is buzzing against the hand he’d shoved under his pillow. The sun is higher in the window than he’d like and too bright for his tastes. Clint groans and rolls over. Everything looks fuzzy at the edges, brain feels a little fuzzy in the middle. For a few minutes, he convinces himself the move-in was uneventful and maybe he’d just dreamed up a redhead to keep him company on his first night alone.  _ Wouldn’t be the first time, bub.  _

He scrapes the mother of all eye boogers out of the corner of his eye with a fingernail. The world comes into slightly better focus and he lets his eyes slide over the room lazily, taking in how everything and nothing is familiar at the same time. His boxes stacked against new walls. His blanket flung over a different couch. His knife laying on a strange table. 

That streak of blood on the wall? Not his.  _ Yep. That happened. I got robbed by Pippi Longstocking.  _

Clint grabs the pillow from behind his head, smashes it over his face briefly, drops it on the floor. He sits up and digs down in the side of the couch, tosses two remaining knives next to their partner on the table. Dives back in for his phone which is still vibrating, hazards a glance at the time and lets out a short huff.  _ Nine fifteen. I have time for a shower. Yay.  _

At least he has the common sense to set up his coffeemaker before trundling off down the hall. By the time he’s showered and pawed through the bag in his closet for clean work pants and the least wrinkled shirt he can find, the scent of promised caffeine has filled the whole place. He swings open a cabinet door and -  _ Goddammit, Steve.  _

Clint curses under his breath and unfolds the stepstool to retrieve one of a handful of mismatched coffee cups from the topmost shelves. He quickly surveys the kitchen from his temporary perch before concluding - no, he  _ doesn’t _ have any sugar - that he definitely should go shopping after his shift today. 

He’s grimacing around another mouthful of hot, bitter lack of basic staples when the lights flicker once, then again. Doorbell. Slams back the rest of his coffee, snags his discarded BTE’s from under the couch, swipes a loose blade off the table just in case. Leaving the chain on, he cracks the door open as the lights flash again. 

He’s greeted by a grumpy but familiar face, half-concealed by a dirty baseball cap and messy brown hair quickly approaching too long. A face that hasn’t seen a razor in several days.  _ Bet Steve’s loving that.  _ His jacket is stark white and freshly pressed in contrast, left sleeve neatly pinned closed where his elbow used to be. He rumbles in a pre-caffeinated and fading accent. “Steve says you need to be on time today.” 

“Morning, Buck,” he stops fiddling with his ear long enough to undo the chain and leaves the door hang open behind him. Confident he’s being muttered at in multiple languages behind his back, he leads his guest right to the coffee pot without delay. He also takes his sweet time slipping the second device over his ear, knowing it frustrates Steve’s dearest to no end when he knows Clint’s not hearing him. 

They tolerate each other for Steve’s sake, mostly. It’s more of a love-to-hate-each-other thing. Clint lets out an annoyed sigh when Bucky just reaches over his head and picks a cup off the high shelf. His hearing aids crackle to life just in time to catch the tail end of the half-Russian rant about who is and is not allowed to use nicknames. “-- you know I hate that. Never listen, just call me whatever the fuck you want. Lucky I don’t just choke you out in your sleep.” 

“Love you, too,” Clint smiles over his second cup. “Oh, no sugar, sorry about that.” 

Bucky pours a cup and knocks it back in two gulps, pours another cup and sucks half of that down before responding. He pats Clint on the head and cracks a rare smile. “Sugar is for tiny children.”

This is what he gets for being friends with the goddamn titans. Clint growls and rolls his eyes, but weathers the insult a minute more before ducking out into the living room. He finishes buttoning his shirt and nudges sneakers out from under the couch, sits quickly to yank them on without untying them from the night before. He looks up at Bucky, who’s approaching something humanoid after a third cup. The bloodstain on his windowsill stirs up a question, so he yells back. 

“Hey, does anyone else live up on this floor?” Bucky just lifts an eyebrow and stares. 

“Guess that’s a no,” Clint finishes up with his shoes, digs one shiny new key and one ancient, cracked brown leather wallet out of last night’s jeans and kicks them back under the couch. “Ready?” 

“Whatever,” Bucky dumps his mug in the sink and fishes car keys out of his pocket. They head out the door. Clint glances down the hallway, swears he sees a door slide shut down near the end. He doesn’t linger long enough to get a look at the number on the door - Bucky’s already halfway down the first flight of stairs, not about to wait for Cint to go snooping on possibly non existent neighbors. He takes steps two at a time to catch up, follows Bucky out the door and down a little side street to the battered black Crown Vic they’d picked up at police auction. The ride to work isn’t long but it beats the hell out of walking and Bucky’s not a big conversationalist. In fact he doesn’t say another word until they’re shuffling in through the bar’s back door and he stops Clint before disappearing into the kitchen for his shift. 

“I leave at six today. You want ride home, be ready.” Clint knows he’s not kidding. He’s been left before. “And thanks for picking up. For Steve.” 

“Gotcha, Buck. Six. And you’re welcome.” He grins, knowing that’s about as affectionate as the guy gets. Bucky gives a curt nod and ducks into the kitchen to start his day. Clint catches a flash of green hair and pink t-shirt, Bucky’s second-in-command crashing about in the background already, well into the day’s prep work. He yells into the doorway as he passes. “Morning, Rocket!” 

 

Rocket’s a spaz, but somehow he and Bucky just  _ blend _ . Even shorter than Clint and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, “Rocket” is Ricky Bradley, a nineteen year old dropout from two counties over with a questionable-at-best criminal record, crippling ADHD and a mouth made for punching. He only has a job because of a misunderstanding over a badly-executed fake ID, a stolen burger and a hilariously short fight with Nick, the bar’s owner. Poor kid just crumpled the second Nick threatened to call the cops, so he told the kid to shut up and go wash dishes to pay for his meal. Fifteen minutes in, the screaming ensued and everyone was pretty sure Bucky’d kill him before night’s end. By the time Nick threw out the last stumbling drunk, the kitchen was strangely quiet. Everyone started crowding around the door after a few minutes, shocked into silence. There was this kid standing at the prep counter, brow furrowed in concentration, cutting a bell pepper into careful strips then neat piles of cubes. And there was Bucky right next to him, giving instructions in a low and clipped tone - “no, fingers  _ back _ \-- point  _ down --  _ there. Good. Again.”

Nick just sighed, threw him a t-shirt, and told him to show up the next morning. 

 

There’s a stack of glass racks waiting for him up front and maybe an hour before the first few lunch customers come rolling in. Clint catches sight of Nick Fury at a side table, behind an open laptop and a pile of last night’s receipts. Barely glances up, grunts a vague “hey” as Clint snaps up a clean apron and ties it on. The only other noise in the room is a gentle burble and hiss from the other end of the bar - coffee’s on here, too. Clint grabs Nick’s near-empty cup and refills it, earns a grateful look, and pours himself a cup - extra sugar, no milk - while he puts away the glasses. Nick takes his coffee and laptop back to the office, stopping to unlock the front door. He’s off to go write next week’s schedule and yell at vendors. It’s his second favorite hobby. “Call me if it gets busy.” 

“Sure thing, boss,” Clint busies himself setting up, cutting lemon slices, filling little tubs with olives and cherries, getting everything where he can grab it without thinking too much when things get busy. It’s easy to settle into a rhythm and he only slows when Sam Wilson comes in and squeezes past him to open the cash register. He taps Clint on the shoulder and signs  _ hey what’s up _ after unlocking the drawer. Like Steve, Sam neither assumes Clint’s always got his ears on, nor expects him to assimilate and lipread. Sam grew up with a deaf grandmother, so he’s got the upper hand in language skills. Also like Steve, Sam was there when Clint sacrificed the last of his hearing to a too-close bomb blast, dragging his dumb ass to safety before things could get worse.

_ Good - in my new place now.  _ He tells Sam about the apartment, his deal with Steve’s landlord, even the stupid stepstool. Sam giggles against the back of his hand, followed by a quick  _ sorry.  _

Leaves out his unexpected visitor, though. Not like that’s gonna happen twice.

_ How’s Sharon and the kids?  _ Clint finishes up with the lemons and sneaks an olive straight out of the jar as he fills up a little plastic tub. Sam grins and whips out his phone. He and his wife, both former Army medics, are foster parents and currently spoiling the crap out of these two kids from an overseas adoption gone south, for as long as the state lets them stay. So far, it’s been a year and Sam’s already started the adoption process. 

A short video plays - a little girl, with long strawberry-blonde hair, smiles and holds up a sheet of paper that says HI UNCLE CLINT in loopy purple marker. She sets down the paper, signs slowly and carefully -  _ my name is  _ W-A-N-D-A.  _ I go to  _ H-A-R-K-N-E-S-S  _ school. My favorite color is red.  _

She stops, grins at the camera again and sways for a minute, then whispers “Was that right, daddy?” 

Sam, from behind the camera, “Perfect, honey.” She giggles, bows, signs  _ thank you _ excitedly and bounds off. Clint laughs and hands back the phone. 

_ She’s adorable, Sam. How’s the boy doing?  _ Sam grimaces a little. Wanda’s twin, Pietro, isn’t adjusting as quickly.  

_ Better, Sharon’s taking him to a new therapist and he’s got an IEP now.  _ Sam’s phone buzzes in his hand and he checks it quickly, shoves it back in his pocket.  _ Speaking of, can you babysit Saturday? _

_ Sure.  _ Clint shrugs and puts away the last of the glassware. He likes babysitting the twins and has a way with Pietro, even on bad days. Plus, Sam has an embarrassingly large Nerf gun collection - including the crossbows - and his house backs up onto the perfect patch of woods.   __

Before long, people from the insurance office across the street start to filter in for lunch and they get busy pulling draft beers and tag-teaming the tables until the rest of their merry band of misfits wander in for their shifts. Scott’s only twenty minutes late, but dives right in, taking orders before he’s even got his apron on. 

“Sorry, guys - Cass had a dentist thing.” Clint waves him on, ducks back behind the bar and Sam tags out to run plates from the rapidly-filling expo window. 

“No prob, man - call next time!” Sam yells after him, balancing three plates of burgers and fries across his forearm. Nobody’s really pissed, though. Scott’s got a kid about Wanda’s age and he’s trying to step up more in the dad department. 

Nick emerges from the back and helps out with the last of the rush. By the time the last of the tables are cleared, it’s not even five but Clint’s ready to drop. Sam pulls a couple bottles out of the cooler under the bar and slides one to him. He scrubs a hand through sweat-slick hair and thumps his head on the counter. He feels a hand on his shoulder, giving a gentle shake. 

“Clint? You gonna live?” he glances up. It’s just Sam, looking all concerned and taking a thoughtful pull off his beer. He groans and sits back up, fishes a bottle opener out of his apron. 

“Yeah, just - didn’t sleep well,” he takes a sip and leans his chin in his hand. Sam nods. 

“New apartments are the worst, I get it,” he glances around. Scott is wiping off a table a few feet away, Nick’s counting down the register behind them. He signs close to his chest.  _ Everything smells weird.  _

Clint chuckles.  _ That, too.  _

After a few minutes, they’re joined by their kitchen compatriots and Nick’s pulled up a seat alongside Clint at the bar as well, next week’s schedule on the clipboard in front of him. He takes a drink right out of Clint’s bottle and gets a tired whimper. “But - that’s -” 

Nick shrugs and drinks some more. “It was mine first.” 

Rocket leans over the bar and tries to snag a bottle, but Sam’s quick and smacks his fingers. “Nice try,” he pours a coke instead and pushes it across the bar. “We’ve seen your shitty ID once, already.” 

Bucky sits on his other side, water glass with a good inch of vodka in it, and orange soda. Drains half the first without blinking, hands the rest to the kid, who tries the same thing and sputters. Sam shoots him a glare but he returns it, equally irritated. “He did good work today. He gets a treat.”  

“He’s a fetus, man. Knock it off.” More eye-rolling from all parties, then Nick taps the clipboard impatiently.

“Girls, you’re both pretty, shut up. Who’s covering Sunday brunch?” Everyone groans. Nobody wants it - Sundays are either painfully slow or churchgoers who don’t belong in a bar and don’t tip for shit. Scott throws up a hand, a little hesitant. 

“I’ll take it but I want Friday off for Cassie’s birthday,” he slides behind the bar and pours himself a root beer. Nick nods and scrawls his name on the paper. The negotiations begin in earnest after that. Ten minutes in, the Norwegian nut bars, brothers Thor and Loki Odinson show up for the dinner shift and jump into the discussion. Clint tries to steal a potentially profitable Saturday night on the bar until Bucky growls and suddenly it’s Steve’s. Not long after that, they get a few early happy hour customers and wind things up. Bucky drags Thor back into the kitchen to go over the night’s menu and Clint and Sam call it a day, leaving Scott and Loki to annoy each other. 

He’s relieved to retreat back to his partially-unpacked apartment and has already stripped off shoes and shirt when he opens his fridge and notices the pizza box is gone. He doesn’t remember eating the last couple of slices from last night. And there’s no beer. Even so, he sighs in resignation and debates ordering out again or running downstairs to see what kind of leftovers Bucky’s been hiding. 

He starts back toward the living room, leans over to collect his shirt. It’s then that he notices the cardboard box on the coffee table.  _ Huh.  _

Inside, there’s a five pound bag of sugar, two boxes of mac and cheese, six cans of not-terrible brew, and a frozen pizza that’s still cold. A sticky note is pressed to the bag of sugar - 

 

Sorry I ate your pizza. I got hungry. 

 

Clint doesn’t recognize the handwriting, other than it’s soft and loopy, like Wanda’s. A little smiley dots the corner of the note. He drops onto the couch, mildly freaked out but glad he doesn’t have to go out now, and a chill breeze hits him in the chest.

 

The window’s open again.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunlight pours in through bare windows, filling every corner of the tiny room, quickly turning the air warm and thick. The smell of paint is so far up his nose even the lemonade he’d brought comes off tasting like semigloss. Clint drops the roller back in the pan and wipes a stray drip of paint off his cheek, pretty much only succeeding in making it a bigger smudge with the back of his hand.  _ Food would still be good right about now.  _

He takes a step back and surveys his work, digs a mosty clean rag out of his pocket to wipe off the rest of the mess.  _ Well, it’s certainly … beige.  _

This apartment marks the halfway point of his and Steve’s promised restoration project. Twelve apartments on this floor, minus the one he calls home, and this is number five. He can’t see any obvious gaps in the color -  _ feels like lunchtime.  _

They’ve been at this almost two months - after the first day, Bucky took pity on them and enlisted his favorite twitchy pet to pitch in and help. Between the four of them, they managed to clear four apartments just working on Sundays. Today, Bucky and Rocket are across the hall installing new sinks and Clint and Steve are putting the finishing touches on this place. 

It’s a welcome distraction. The work keeps him focused, but he still glances over his shoulder sometimes, positive he’d seen a flash of red hair and black hoodie behind him.  _ Hoping _ he’d seen it. 

Two months and no repeat performances from Pippi Ninjastocking. He hasn’t even bothered to lock the window since the first night. He gets the distinct feeling that whatever she’s going home to ain’t that great and kinda wishes she’d swing in the wrong window again, just so he wouldn’t have to worry. No news isn’t necessarily good news. 

Clint hasn’t said a word otherwise, only vaguely casting about with Steve one night, trying to place that nagging feeling he’d seen her somewhere. No such luck. OK, so occasionally he’s short a box of pop tarts. Or, he comes home from work to a wet towel slung over the shower curtain rod and the lingering scent of oranges in the bathroom. He seems to be running out of toothpaste awfully fast, too. It should bother him a lot more than it does, but it’s reassuring.  _  A pop-tart stealing Pippi is a healthy Pippi.  _

Clint shakes his head. One last glance around confirms this room is done and his stomach rumbles at the thought of poptarts. He takes off for the kitchen - the masking tape can wait. 

“Hey, Steve, ya hungry?” He stops short at the kitchen entrance, where Steve’s been patiently prying up and replacing broken tiles. As he is inclined to do, a simple job has turned complex, and Steve’s fishing through a pile of tile pieces left over from the other units. Shards of faded blue and yellow tiles begin to form a sunburst pattern in the center of the kitchen floor. A pair of thick, ancient wireframes - the last vestiges of the undersized, asthmatic rage ferret Cint went to school with - slips down his nose. “You know we don’t get paid extra to make it pretty. In fact, we’re not getting paid at all.” 

Steve shoves his glasses in place with the back of one dusty hand and sets a little group of blue tiles. “Everyone deserves something nice.” 

“You  _ deserve _ a goddamn burger,” Clint kicks a stray tile across his field of vision. It sticks in the wet mortar right as he’s setting another piece close by. Steve throws him a dirty look over the top of his glasses. Clint just grins. “Food. We should go eat some.” 

Steve sits back on his heels and sighs. “I suppose. Go find out what the kids want, I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” 

As if on cue, the apartment door bangs open and Rocket comes barreling into the room, brandishing a half-full garbage bag. Today’s t-shirt is bright purple with TRASH PANDA across the front in glitter. “Relinquish unto me your refuse! Divest yourself of detritus! Gimme the garbage!” 

Steve laughs and points to a growing mound of paper towels behind him. “Go nuts.” 

“Hey, there’s a bunch of plastic and stuff in the bathroom, too.” Clint bounces the kid back the hallway. 

“I learned to put in a garbage disposal today!” Rocket yells back. Clint starts to ask him how it went when Bucky drags in a moment later, canvas bag full of tools clanging to the floor. His knuckles are bloody and there’s a scratch on his forehead. . 

“That good, huh?” Clint cracks a smile then immediately drops it when Bucky throws him a murderous side-eye. 

Steve chuckles and stands up. “C’mere, let me see.” 

“The boy has noodle arms,” Bucky holds out his hand dutifully for inspection, “I make him pick up trash instead.” 

“Hey those things are fuckin’ heavy, man!” Rocket argues, poking his head out of the bathroom. He can’t help but look a little wounded by his mentor’s words. Steve’s wiping blood off Bucky’s hand with unusual focus, mouth pressed into a thin line, holding back what could only be a giggle. In the kitchen, these two may work magic, but outside? Someone’s going to get stabbed before the sun sets. Clint jumps in and takes Rocket by the arm. No sense in ruining a perfectly good lunch run with arguments. 

“Why don’t you come with me and grab some burgers?” He drags Rocket into the hallway and they leave Steve to tend to his husband in peace. “So, garbage disposal, huh? What’d you do, drop it on him?” 

“I swear I didn’t mean to, it just slipped. We had this fuckin’ wood block under it and Buck was just trying to -” Clint lets him launch into the whole harrowing tale as they poke down the narrow hall, complete with sound effects and wild gesturing. As they’re passing the apartment next door, Clint swears he can hear music coming from inside. Rocket shows no sign of noticing or slowing down, and he taps his hearing aid. It crackles and the music fades.  _ Must be picking up radio stations or something again.  _  He tries to focus on Rocket, already missing half the story in the four seconds he stopped paying attention. The kid’s perfectly happy to keep up the one-sided conversation as they make the two block trip for burgers, pausing for a second to request onion rings instead of fries. They’re waiting on their order when Clint realizes he’s being stared at - Rocket’s narrow, angular features pinched up in a half-hopeful gaze. 

“So? What do you think?” he steals a french fry from the half-finished order on the counter. Clint shakes his head, gives himself a minute to orient to the lack of constant chatter. He scratches his chin, as if in thought, and replies. 

“Huh?” Yeah, he didn’t catch any of that. Rocket sighs and picks another fry out of the bag. 

“I said, do you think he’s really mad at me? Like, it would kinda be a dick move, but is he gonna get me fired or something?” Kid sounds genuinely worried.  _ Looks  _ genuinely worried. Clint just laughs and slaps a hand on his back. 

“You’re OK, dude. Buck’s just grumpy. He’ll get over it.” The kid’s shoulders drop a little and he smiles. Snakes another fry. Clint snatches the bag back. “Didn’t you get onion rings, anyway?” 

“Yeah, so? Everybody knows french fries taste better when they’re not yours.” 

“Are you even gonna eat those onion rings?” The rest of their order comes up and Clint grabs the second bag. Rocket whistles and heads to the door without answering. He can see how the kid can cause a bit of frustration. 

 

Back at the building and properly fed, Clint is introduced to the building super, a mildly stressed looking guy somewhat ironically named Happy. He shrugs out of a suit jacket and folds up his sleeves, mindlessly tucks the end of his tie back into his shirt a few buttons down to keep it from hanging as he looks under the sink and inspects recently replaced light fixtures. He's constantly checking his phone and hastily tapping out texts as Clint goes over everything they've done so far. His suspicions that it's the building's owner blowing up his phone are confirmed when Happy sees Steve's half-finished mosaic in the kitchen. He frowns and snaps a quick picture. 

“I don't know if Mr. S is going to go for this - he's really not into -” Happy's warning is cut short as his phone chimes again, then twice more in quick succession. “Yeah, never mind. He says it’s cool. And to do that in all the units.” 

“Awesome,” Steve nods from his spot on the floor, finishing up Rocket’s untouched onion rings and looking quite pleased with himself. Bucky offers a fist bump without comment. Happy’s phone chimes again and he turns his attention back on Clint, who’s killing off the last of his soda. 

“Wants to know if you like  _ your _ place. If the mods are helpful.” Happy glances up, thumbs paused expectantly over the phone. Some of the soda goes down the wrong way and he sputters a little. 

“Uhh, yeah, sure. It’s great.” Happy nods and taps out a response, reading yet more incoming messages simultaneously. 

“OK, so the tech will be back next week to make some upgrades on the security for this floor. Cameras in the halls, motion sensors on the outside ..” Clint raises an eyebrow at Steve. 

“Cameras?” he repeats. Happy glances up from reading more messages, groans a bit, but lowers the phone. 

“You heard about the warehouse fires in the last couple of months?” There had been some chatter at the bar - that’s what they get for being across the street from the town’s only insurance agency. Some old warehouses out on the edge of town, burned to the ground. Just one at first, then two more in the last two weeks. “Mr. Stark has some concerns about his property in this area.” 

“Really? Like, this building?” Even Rocket stops halfway through a bite of cheeseburger to listen. Happy steps in closer to the four, shoves his phone in his pocket.

“Look, I really shouldn’t even be telling you this, but - he thinks the fires are targeted. Two of the buildings, they were recently bought up by a corporation. Shady bunch, we don’t work with them. Like, ever.” 

“Who is it?” Steve leans in. Happy shakes his head and coughs, 

“I can’t say. Just that they’ve made offers on Mr. Stark’s properties and he’s turned them down every time.” 

The room remains silent, barely a breath taken, until Happy’s phone chimes again. He straightens and steps back. “So, like I said, if you have any adjustments you need, anything at all, just let Bruce know next week. He’ll get you taken care of.” 

The three older guys just trade a look between each other. Clint’s the first to speak up. “Are we, um - is it -” 

Happy cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it. Mister S is looking out for you all. Just keep on working and let us know if you see anyone hanging around, that sort of thing.” 

_ Oh, like strange women crawling in your window? _

He picks up his jacket from the kitchen counter and heads toward the door. Just before he ducks out, he fishes a key from his pocket and flips it at Clint. “When you get a chance, check out the roof. We’ve been told you might need a practice space for your, uh, hobby.” 

Once Happy is gone, Steve helps Rocket haul a goodly number of trash bags out back. Clint and Bucky decide to check out the remaining units, see what they might be able to finish today and what they’ll need to get before next week. The next place they check out is in need of new drywall in several places, and the toilet bowl is cracked in the bathroom. Clint grins at Bucky. 

“Feel like teaching the munchkin to put in toilets?” He’s met immediately with the murderglare. 

“You help. Let noodle arms help Steve.” 

They look at a few more things, Clint takes some pictures for reference, and they head across the hall to 410. The door sticks and Clint has to put his shoulder into it, tumbling into the room when the lock suddenly lets go. It’s - different - in here. No holes in the walls or cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. The floor is swept clean, a couple of cardboard boxes sit in the corner. Something smells just a little bit like pepperoni pizza. Clint notices the coffee cup on the counter - black with a purple chevron pattern.  _ Just like the one I have at home.  _

His body reacts before his brain catches up and he’s ushering Bucky back out the door. “I think we need to go look at that bathroom again, thought I saw a crack in the tub -” 

It’s a lot harder to move a cranky Russian nearly twice your size when he’s suddenly curious. 

Before he can get back into the hallway, Steve and Rocket come up the stairs, headed straight for them. Steve brightens up when he sees the tidy living room. “Hey, this one isn’t so bad - maybe we can just clean it up today and call it done?” 

“Nah, man, 409 is rough, we need to get going on that first,” Clint points them across the hall, finally succeeding in herding everyone back into the hallway. He cocks a smile up at Steve. “Kitchen floor’s a real fuckin’ nightmare.” 

_ Ohthankgod that worked. _ Steve’s intrigued now, heading into the wrecked unit to start making plans. Rocket follows behind, letting loose a squeal when he sees the torn up walls. “We get to take down the  _ old  _ walls first, right?” 

“Yep,” he nods. “There will be crowbars, maybe even a large hammer involved.” 

Rocket rubs his hands together with anticipated destructive glee and Bucky just slaps his forehead. “I am NOT babysitting this one again!” 

With the other three temporarily tied up arguing over whether Rocket’s going to be allowed anything larger than a screwdriver, Clint backs out the door and across the hall. The door to 410 is still cracked and he widens the gap just enough to slip through and get a closer look. The living room is bare and the boxes in the corner are taped shut. In the kitchen, the signs of life are more apparent. A small plate and bowl sit on the edge of the sink, beads of water still clinging to the surface. He picks up the mug and turns it over in his hands. It’s still warm and he runs a finger along a seam between the cup and handle. He remembers snapping the handle off trying to drink coffee in the shower one morning. He’d set it aside, meaning to glue the handle back on later that evening. 

This isn’t just like the one he has at home - it i _ s  _ the one he has at home. 

_ Goddammit, Pippi.  _

He ventures back the hallway towards the unit’s only bedroom. There’s music again, faint and high pitched like a fly’s buzz. He taps his hearing aids but it doesn’t fade this time. The bedroom door is closed but not latched. He pushes against it with a toe and it swings in. 

She’s spread out on a mattress in the corner, headphones on, poring over a huge, unfolded piece of paper. One bare leg is slung over the edge of the mattress, the point of her foot barely grazing the floor, the other leg folded neatly underneath her. Her bright hair is piled up on her head in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through the middle. The hoodie has been traded for an oversize t-shirt, emblazoned with a band logo he doesn’t recognize, neckline stretched so much it slips down over one thin shoulder. She’s tapping another pencil against her leg, as yet unaware she’s not alone anymore. He breaks the silence. 

“Pippi? What the hell are you doing here?”  

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life is a dumpster fire. So is Clint's. Let's have some fun.

She pushes the paper in front of her away hastily, mostly just crumpling it in the process. Clint tilts his head to the side for a second - some kind of floor plans. He can see where she’s scratched out notes on the page, sketched-in boxes and pathways and that ridiculously loopy, childlike handwriting. The girl’s frozen in place now, eyes darting from the badly-concealed drawings to Clint’s face, pencil paused in the air, mid-tap. She wears a practiced expression of neutrality, but her lower lip still quivers, leaving her looking for all the world like Wanda when she’s been caught feeding her veggies to the dog. Still, she’s alive and well and he can’t help but be just a little bit relieved. 

Her hand shows remnants of the pink rash she’d had that first night, and she’s sporting a shiny, tight patch of skin on her forearm, just below the elbow. He’s seen enough healing burns to recognize one immediately.  _ God, what are they doing to you, Pippi? _

“He-ey,” she blinks and pulls in a breath, breaking into an easy smile. She pushes down her headphones. “Is this about the pop-tarts? Because I can get you -”

“You can’t be here,” Clint cuts her off. He checks the hallway, peeks around the corner to make sure he wasn’t followed, nudges the bedroom door shut behind him. 

“I thought this floor was empty,” she grabs for the crumpled paper and starts folding it up, smile fading as quickly as it came. “Except for you.” 

“Well, it’s not anymore. We’re supposed to be cleaning everything out,” he spies an open backpack on the floor and tosses it at her. “And  _ you’re _ not supposed to be here.” 

She stares down at the open bag now in her lap, then back up at him. “Then where do I go?” 

“How about home, Pippi? I don’t know what you’re messed up in, but I’m sure your parents miss you or something,” he grabs for a handful of clothes in the corner, tossing them in her lap as well. She’s still staring at him, lips pressed together tightly, every vestige of the light and easy look from seconds ago draining from her face. She shoves the clothes in the bag roughly, eyes still fixed on him. 

“My parents are dead, asshole.” Clint stops picking up random shit on the floor and launching it onto the bed. 

_ Oh _ . 

“And who the fuck is Pippi?” She stands up abruptly and Clint backs away. She moves like she’s going to get in his face for a second, then spins and starts packing her bag again. She shoots him a glare over her shoulder. “Have you been calling me Pippi in your head this whole time?”

“It was just - well,it’s not like you left your business card the other night,” he shoots back, picking up anything on the floor that might be hers, throwing it on the bed with a tad more force than necessary. She snatches up what he’s throwing and rams that in the bag, too. Blowing out a breath in frustration, she straightens and turns back to him. 

“Natalie.” It takes him a second to realize she’s holding out her hand, waiting for the socially acceptable response. He blinks a few times, hands still full of clothes and notebooks. Nods at her instead. She rolls her eyes and takes the armload of stuff. 

“Clint.” He scans the room again - seems she travels pretty light. Other than the blanket balled up on the edge of the mattress - a furry, pink and purple polka dotted abomination of a thing -  there’s nothing else. “And you still gotta go.” 

“Well, how about your place?” she quirks an eyebrow at him, zipping up the bag. “I can get there across the fire escapes.” 

“Won’t work, everyone’s coming to my place when we’re done,” he digs around in his pocket for the key Happy gave him earlier. “This’ll get you on the roof, at least. No one’s gonna be up there today.” 

She takes it and slips into the front pocket of her shorts, slings the backpack over one shoulder and scoops up her blanket. “So, what, I’m just supposed to hang out on the roof all day?” 

Clint runs his hands through his hair, checks the room again for anything suspicious, racks his brain for anyplace else she could go. He can’t send her back to any of the places they’d finished - he can’t be sure that the super’s not just going to pop up at random. Can’t leave her here. Knowing Steve, he won’t be able to call it a day until this place is scrubbed down and ready, too. He reaches in his back pocket for his wallet, fishes out two twenties. 

“How about you get us some pop-tarts? And whatever else you want.” She smiles brightly again, bounces on the balls of her feet for a second, then spins for the door. 

“Pippi - shoes.” He points at her still-bare feet. Her cheeks flush pink and she grabs the sneakers nearby, sliding them on without untying them. Clint heads into the hallway first, and she follows up close behind, clutching her blanket to her chest and barely breathing. It comes in uneven little puffs against his upper arm - she’s barely up to his shoulder, even with shoes on. If he turns his head back, just a little bit, he can smell oranges. Must be her shampoo. He can’t stop from taking one quick, deep breath in before waving her across the room. She pops open the window easily and tosses her stuff on the fire escape, Clint keeping his body between her and the doorway, just in case anyone comes looking for him. She climbs out and crouches down, peeking back in the window. “See you later?” 

“Yeah, I’ll see you later,” he keeps his voice low, eyes on the front door. There’s no movement from the hallway, so he adds, “and don’t get that strawberry unfrosted bullshit - those aren’t pop-tarts, they’re punishment.” 

She flashes him another smile and gathers up her stuff. Clint watches until she’s clambered down the little stairway, out of sight, then heads back across the hall. He swings open the door to 409 to witness the picture of absolute chaos. 

Somehow, the three of them, left alone, had produced not one, but  _ two _ sledgehammers  _ and  _  a crowbar and are going to town taking down the ruined living room wall. 

_ Well, at least someone thought to bring goggles.  _

Steve meets him at the door, hands over one of the hammers with a weary grin and leans in close. “Just keep the collective rage pointed at the wall and not each other. I’m gonna go finish the other kitchen.” 

It’s quarter till seven when the wall is finally cleared, floors swept and tools stowed for the night. Clint was right, Steve wouldn’t call it a day until they ran back across the hall and tidied up Natalie’s former residence. He was quick to stash the coffee cup and dishes in a cabinet until they were done and he could sneak them back to his place inside a box of paint rollers and tarps. 

They call in an order to the chinese place up the street and Steve runs downstairs for beer and sodas. Clint lets everyone into his place and there’s a measure of good-natured bickering over what to watch until Rocket snatches the remote off the table and decides they should be watching  _ Engineering Disasters _ . 

“You are engineering disaster, boy.” Bucky claims Clint’s newly acquired recliner, flips the footrest out and leans back with a groan. Rocket bounds through Clint’s kitchen and returns with a frosty glass bottle, vodka stowed in the freezer since last weekend. He cracks the cap and takes a surreptitious swig before handing it over to his boss and settling - of all places - on the floor next to the recliner. 

After all the yelling, head injuries, one near-stabbing and general disarray surrounding the two, Clint can’t help but bust out laughing at the sight in his living room - Bucky kicked back in the chair, halfway to napping, frozen bottle parked between his knees, and Rocket with his head pillowed on the arm of the chair, quietly spacing out to failing bridges, being scritched behind the ears like a goddamn golden retriever. 

He lets out a long sigh and goes back to the kitchen to pull out some bowls for when the food shows up.  He’s balancing a stack of bowls and a handful of mismatched silverware when Steve reappears, leaving a twelve pack of cans and a shopping bag full of Dr. Pepper on the floor by the coffee table, strolling over to idly ruffle Rocket’s lime green mop before scooping the dishes out of Clint’s hands. Clint just groans and drops onto the couch, tears the top of the twelve pack open. 

“Glad to see you’ve finally agreed on adopting a pet,” he mutters, popping open a can. 

“He’s a good kid, man,” Steve settles in next to him on the couch and snags a Dr. Pepper. “Did you know Ricky has two little sisters he looks after?” 

Some of the beer goes down the wrong way and he chokes for a second. “He’s responsible for another human life?” 

“Yeah, dude, I’m practically a teen mom,” Rocket pipes up, scooting from his spot next to the chair to lay his head on the couch next to Steve, who automatically resumes scritches without thought. 

“Speaking of,  _ Ricky _ ,” Steve never got on the whole Rocket-as-a-nickname bandwagon, “Sam called and said you need to call back at eight for bedtime? Apparently your sisters have a routine?” 

“Yeah, we have a bedtime song,” Rocket nods and twists around in his newly formed little nest to snag an ancient flip-phone out of his pocket. The boy has picked up a blanket in his travels across the floor, somehow both clashing and blending in with the bright pink and purple dots. Furry. Bright Pink and Purple Dots. He’s seen this blanket before.  

Just like he’s seen the backpack under the window before. The window he doesn’t bother locking anymore. He jumps off the couch, almost knocking over his half-gone beer and Steve’s soda. Steve looks up, faintly startled, raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh, hey - I just remembered, think I left some stuff out. Just, uh, don’t eat all the lo mein until I get back.” Clint ignores Steve’s curious glances and heads for the door. It’s barely shut behind him before he’s barrelling down the hallway toward the heavy steel door at the end, the one with ROOF ACCESS painted in chipped black letters. It swings open when he pushes, already unlocked, and he clears the small flight of steps two and three at a time, crashing through the second door. 

He barely has time to register that certain improvements were, indeed, made up here. A rooftop garden edges two sides, soil recently tilled and looking ready to be planted. The brick row markers painted with Russian labels confirm that was Bucky’s idea. Makes a mental note to text Happy later, thank him for the row of targets at the far end, backed by an impressive-looking mesh structure, probably intended to keep stray projectiles from an unsuspecting public below. 

_ Clearly he didn’t look up my service record.  _ He lets out an involuntary chuckle, still scanning the area. Movement in the shadow by the garden shed draws his eye. It also gives him enough time to duck as a flash of silver flies past, nearly taking a chunk of ear with it. The knife buries itself with a neat thump into one of the targets. He sees red hair slip from under a cap as she readies another. 

“Stop! Hey! It’s me!” he yells at the shadow, throwing up his hands. “Natalie!” 

She emerges from the shadow, tucking the escaped hair back under her knit cap. She gives a little wave with the knife already in her hand. That, too, has a familiar shape. 

“You stole my knives?” He scrubs his hands over his face, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. Silently curses himself for having thought things were going so smoothly - God, it was almost like he had a normal life for a little while there. 

“Borrowed. I just - there was a lot of noise and yelling earlier - I wanted to be safe.” Natalie steps closer, hands him the remaining two blades. Out of frustration, he just lets both fly, one right after the other, at the target where their remaining partner had stuck a few minutes ago. Natalie squints at the target and laughs. 

“You missed,” she smiles at him, trying to break the mood. He lets a smile of his own crack open. 

“Did I?” He doesn’t bother making the walk with Natalie, knows she’s going to find the knives on either side of the first, a few centimeters away, just about equally spaced. He doesn’t like to let the knives hit each other - ruins the edge. 

This right here, this is the talent that landed him on a specialized team next to action heroes like his own best friend. This is how mostly-deaf, five-nine-on-a-good-day, Clint Barton hangs with the titans. 

_ I don’t miss.  _

Natalie returns with all three knives and a newfound admiration on her face. 

“Show me how to do that,” she asks, handing over the knives. Clint slides them in his jacket pocket carefully, only slicing open his thumb a little. 

“Stop leaving your stuff in my living room,” he returns, still grinning. “How do you feel about lo mein?”

By the time Clint makes it back downstairs, the food is there but the guys are clearing out. Bucky’s dangerously close to crashing out and Steve’s promised to drive Rocket home for an in-person rendition of the bedtime song. Even the green-haired hurricane seems to be running out of steam. Clint snags the big paper carton of noodles and lets everyone else take the rest. Once he’s alone again, he throws the noodles back in the takeout bag with a couple pairs of chopsticks, adds in a soda, grabs his bow case and heads back up to the roof. 

_ It’s a nice night out - why waste it?  _

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> OK so I have to tell the story of how this came about because it involves my eleven year old son and a poppy love song he grew tired of listening to in the car. His sisters love the song "She Sets the City on Fire" and he's contrary (a feature common to most eleven year olds) so he began working out an alternate story for the song - a guy falls in love with a serial arsonist. I had to - it is a moral imperative that I write this. He can read it when he's older.


End file.
